Searching
by deadisalive
Summary: He woke up not knowing who he was or what he was.


**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Never has been, never will be.

**Warning: **Um, nothing so far, really. And I don't think there will be anything worth of a warning in the future. It's rated T just in case (just curious, is anyone reading the stories here younger than 13 anyways?) However, as I am in the terminal stage of the fangirl-disease, I have the tendency of gently steer everything I get my hands on in the direction of slash. I am not planning on any romance for this story though (because I know it would be slash if I were to write any romance) so I don't think there will be a problem. But be warned just in case, because the terminal stage of fangirl-disease is incurable and has won many battles over my consciousness in the past.

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It was three o'clock in the morning – assuming that the clock on the wall is functioning properly. He was in a room, a hotel room from the looks of it, and a very simple, basic, cheap one for that matter. The walls were white, but were shimmering with shades of yellow from the light of the lamp. Against one wall was a double bed, beside the bed was a nightstand, and on the nightstand was the aforementioned lamp which he had turned on.

There was a window on the adjacent wall. Not too big, not too small, just a normal-sized window, covered with curtains – red curtains with gold embroidery on them. He did not bother trying to make out the embroidery pattern.

The wall adjacent to the other side of the wall with the window – in other words, the wall across from the bed – had the clock on it. A traditional clock, with the shorter hand resting at three and the longer at twelve – actually it was a little bit towards one now, as some time had passed since he last looked at the clock. He assumed that it was in the early morning instead of early afternoon because there was no light peeping out from the edges of the curtains.

There was also a painting on that same wall, a painting of a vase full of blossoming flowers. Below the painting was a desk, with a lamp on its surface, and a chair tucked in under it. The lamp was not turned on at the moment, but it worked, as he had already checked. There was no lighting device overhead on the ceiling.

No bathroom attached to the room. As a matter of fact, all that was left to describe about the room is the door, which was nothing out of the ordinary at all, just a normal-looking door, on the fourth and final wall, across from the wall with the window. He has not tried for the door yet, but it would be what he would use to leave the room.

Or I could use the window, he thought, without realizing what he was thinking until the thought had fully presented itself, without warning or reason.

But maybe there was a reason why he would prefer to exit the room in unconventional ways such as crawling out of the window. Because from what he had found out about himself, he was not an ordinary person and this room may not be an ordinary room like it appeared to be.

He sighed and looked at the stuff in front of him for (at least) the tenth time. He was standing in front of the bed, dressed in a pair of jeans and a plain black shirt, the clothes he had woken up in. He also woke up with a small bag in his hand, the contents of the bag now spread out on the bed, and they were the source of his anxiety and – as much as he hated to admit it – fear.

Not that all of the contents of the bag were scary. Some – most – were just ordinary objects. Somehow he felt uncomfortable at the thought that they were ordinary objects, but that was what they appeared to be. There was a PSP, an iPod, a book, a bottle of water (but with no brand name on it), several pieces of gum, a small box of hand lotion (he reasoned that out from the cover, which read "for smooth and healthy hands"), a small mirror, and some money. Well, not really "some", more like "a lot". But exactly how much he had he did not know, because he did not know the exchange rates between all the currencies. Yes, there was more than one currency – he counted twelve – and while some were familiar to him, some were not that familiar. But just counting the ones he know – namely the pounds – he already knew there was a lot of money.

The money was one source for his anxiety, but not the major one.

The major source of his anxiety (and fear) was the passports, eight different passports, with eight different names.

But all eight photos depicted the same person. The same person he saw when he looked into the mirror.

And to make things worse – because why not? – he did not know which, if any, of the passport bore his real name.

Because he could not remember.

He could not remember his real name. He could not remember anything. Who he was. _What_ he was.

And that was the root source of his fear, he realized as he sighed and began to go through the passports for the tenth time. He had arranged the passports alphabetically according to the last name. Not that it mattered or helped.

Hoping that some sort of lightening, impulse, familiarity, recognition – something, _something_ would strike him and give him a hint to find his lost memory, he began – for the tenth time – to mouth the names on the passports one by one.

Thomas Brian Chance. Franck Georges. Ulric Kristian. Andrew Larson. Czar Gregori Lebedev. Curtis Manning. Oskar Nikolaus. Alex Rider.

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**A/N:**

The hardest part of writing this chapter? Coming up with the eight names. Seriously. Please don't laugh at me if any of them are ridiculous...

This is the prologue so really, nothing is going on yet. But the next chapter will bring some actions, I promise :)


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